


to leave the warmest bed i've ever known

by thephanlock



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Songfic, tis the damn season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephanlock/pseuds/thephanlock
Summary: Ryan left California and it all fell apart.Based on ‘tis the damn season by Taylor Swift.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	to leave the warmest bed i've ever known

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be 1,000 words. it got out of control. send help. /j
> 
> also i kinda hate this, but i wanted to finish it and get it out there, hope you like it <3

_ If I wanted to know who you were hanging with _

_ While I was gone, I would've asked you _

_ It's the kind of cold, fogs up windshield glass _

_ But I felt it when I passed you _

Ryan left California and it all fell apart.

If he’d been asked a few years ago, he never would’ve dreamt of leaving. California was his home, where he grew up,  _ everything  _ that mattered to him was here. He’d planted some pretty strong roots; rented an apartment on a lease with no foreseeable end, made a bunch of friends, got a season pass to Disneyland, started a company and done nearly everything he ever dreamed to.

But last year, Watcher started getting bigger, too big for their little office in LA. Someone had to move to New York to start making connections, to get a sense of whether a second office in NYC was a good idea.

“It’ll only be for three months, six tops,” Steven said, laying the idea on the table with no pressure. To everyone, it sounded like a good plan, the best move for their business. “I would go but that would leave no one here to do the financial side and the admin.”

And Ryan watched as, slowly, every other option was crossed off the list and all eyes turned on him.

It took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realise that it was probably him or no one.

“You don’t have to,” Steven said and Ryan was grateful for there to be no pressure on his decision. “We know you love LA, it’s just an idea.”

“I’ll go,” The words out of his mouth before he even knew he was going to say them. 

He remembers the way Shane had been looking out of the window, distracted and a little bored. The way his head had snapped up at Ryan’s answer, eyes wide, like he hadn’t even considered the possibility of Ryan saying yes.

And now, standing waiting for the train in New York and scrolling through social media, Ryan’s not sure why he agreed to it. He didn’t know he would miss home this much but everywhere he goes, the loneliness presses on his chest, an invisible weight. 

He finds himself looking to his side, expecting to see Shane there, grinning back at him.

Scrolling through Instagram hurts, too. To see everyone posting as though he’d never left, to see Steven, Katie and Shane going out for drinks without him, to see little snippets of some dumb song Shane belts out at karaoke and knowing he’ll never see that moment in full - it hurts. 

Of course, Ryan hadn’t expected life in California to hit pause when the wheels of his plane lifted up and he headed across the country. It’s been months and he still texts Shane every day, but it still stings to see their lives playing out as though he was never part of them. 

A few times a week, they even fit in the time to talk on the phone and for a moment, it’s like Ryan never left. Shane’s voice sounds exactly the same as Ryan remembers, maybe more tired, more gravelly, but still so very Shane.

“How’s New York?” Shane asks and Ryan can hear the smile lingering onto his words. If he’s getting the timezones right, it’s almost eleven for Shane now, whereas it’s well past midnight for Ryan. 

He hopes Shane won’t call him out on it, won’t ask why he’s awake at such a stupid hour. Because then he’d have to explain that he barely sleeps now, plagued by too many thoughts that keep him awake. Then he’d have to explain that these phone calls, these texts - they’re what he looks forward to most.

“It’s, you know,” Ryan starts, not quite sure what to say. “It’s New York.”

“Yeah, it is,” Shane laughs. “Great observation, buddy. I meant, how are you liking it?”

“It’s alright, I’m always busy, it’s so fast paced,” Ryan rattles off the things that he loves about New York. They’re the things that drew him here in the first place, swapping a life of comfort for something new, something more challenging. “But I miss the sun and Disney and the office and Steven and Katie and everyone and you.” 

The last one just slips out and Ryan remembers how bad of an idea it is to talk with anyone at 2am. For some reason, it always gets emotional and deep.

“I miss you too, Ryan,” Shane says and the way he says it is so sincere that Ryan has to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

Some days, he’s fine with the distance and the texting and the phone calls ending in ‘Shit, gotta go!’ and the missed inside jokes. Some days, he can forget that Californian blood runs through his veins, can appreciate the cooler air of New York and get through the business meetings. Some days, he can appreciate the thin walls of his rented apartment, so thin that he can hear every movement his neighbours make. 

Most days, he counts down the days until he plans to head back.

The train pulls up to the station and Ryan steps inside, reminding himself that in three days, he’ll be home.

_ There's an ache in you _

_ Put there by the ache in me _

_ But if it's all the same to you _

_ It's the same to me _

As soon as the plane touches down in LA, Ryan’s already throwing his seatbelt off and searching for his things. He power walks through the airport like he’s a middle-aged mother, tapping his foot when the baggage claim takes a little longer than it usually does. With all the Unsolved shoots over the years, this airport has become familiar, this whole experience mundane and unimpressive.

But when he steps into the arrivals lounge, it’s like it’s the first time he’s stepped foot in California, like he’s a giddy and wide-eyed tourist. His heart swells, eyes searching for a face he recognises.

And there he is, towering over the rest of the crowd and looking around for Ryan.

“Shane,” Ryan calls as he walks towards him. He drags the suitcases behind him haphazardly, his strides getting bigger with each step. “Hi.” Ryan says and it sounds like the word has been punched out him, latching onto an exhale and now, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.” Shane says with a wide smile and he’s pulling him into a tight hug, Ryan’s head resting just below his shoulder. Without hesitation, Ryan hugs back, letting go of his suitcases and not even noticing when they roll a little, edging away from the pair of them.

There’s a pause before either of them move.

“It’s good to see you,” Shane says, as he grabs one of Ryan’s suitcases and wheels it towards the exit. 

* * *

Things go back to normal quickly, quick enough that Ryan feels like he’s got whiplash. The very next day, he’s back in the office and filling the senior team in on all the things he learned in New York.

It only ended up being four months, but he still managed to make content for Youtube, doing a collab series with Steven to check out all the best food spots in NYC, and squeezed in countless business meetings. To Ryan, it really does feel like he got a good ‘feel’ of New York, like he understands how they would transition to a second office over there.

But he’s never been more glad to be home.

“Are you going back?” Shane asks that night, when the workday is long over and Ryan’s over at his place to watch a movie and catch up, as though they hadn’t talked every single day for the past however-many months. 

For a moment, Ryan considers it. He thinks of how much good it would do the company, how much more content they could make if they had two offices, more employees, more equipment. He thinks of their dream when they started this, making television-level content, pitching shows to streaming services, signing on more creators. 

He thinks of how all of that could become a reality in mere  _ months  _ if he went.

It’s only when Ryan reaches the bottom of the list does he think about himself, about his own feelings, about what  _ he  _ wants.

What  _ does _ he want?

“I don’t know,” Ryan mumbles as he continues to stare at the screen, the scenes passing by without him really watching them. “What would you do?”

“I don’t know, man,” Shane says, his eyebrows knitted together as he ponders the question. “You know we’ll be fine, whatever you choose.” Shane continues, the  _ I’ll be fine  _ hanging unspoken between them. Ryan remembers scrolling through feeds, seeing their lives unaffected, seeing how they carried on doing everything they’ve always done, whilst Ryan sat in a rented, box apartment across the country.

_ Yeah,  _ Ryan thinks,  _ that’s the point. _

_ So we could call it even _

_ You could call me "babe" for the weekend _

_ 'Tis the damn season, write this down _

They fall into a routine. They meet in the car park after work, get in Ryan’s car and drive to Shane’s, almost every night that week. 

Most times, they put a film on, but it’s never a good one and it’s more background noise than anything else. Back home, Ryan would be watching intently, analysing every scene, every shot, eyes glued to the screen. But when he’s with Shane, neither of them can take it seriously, commenting on how dumb the protagonist of that horror film is, how unrealistically quickly that couple got together, spending the runtime just cracking jokes.

It’s easy. For a while, he forgets that he might have to leave. 

He’s been back for a week and two days when Steven approaches him. 

“Have you made a decision?” He asks one morning, as he rolls his chair towards Ryan’s desk. “It’s not urgent, I’m just wondering.”

“I,” Ryan says, stopping short when he realises that he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He’d been avoiding thinking about it entirely. “I don’t know.”

“Well, no worries, just let me know when you know,” Steven says and the way he smiles, so kind and open, eases any tension building up in Ryan’s shoulders and jaw immediately. 

Ryan opens his mouth to speak, to say thank you, but Steven’s already rolling back the way he came. 

* * *

Watcher keeps getting bigger. It’s blowing up. Ryan can’t believe it. This little passion project, this risk that they’d bet their savings on, it’s all coming to fruition right before his very eyes. 

They pass five million subscribers on the two week mark of Ryan being back. 

Crowded around a single screen, as though there aren’t several computers in the office, they watch the sub count go up with bated breath. For a second, Ryan thinks they won’t hit it, they  _ can’t  _ hit it, never in his wildest dreams did he think they could reach five million.

Ryan feels Shane beside him tense up, his normally calm and laidback presence replaced by anticipation. 

The numbers keep going up, 4.96 million, 4.97.

Ryan looks over at Shane, a look of disbelief on his face and finds his expression mirrored on Shane’s face.

Thousands of memories flash through Ryan’s mind at record speed; sitting in the kitchen and budgeting, hundreds of business meetings, late-night phone calls with Shane when he doubted whether they could do this, whether anyone would care about what they made if it wasn’t Unsolved. 

And the number passes five million.

There’s a moment’s pause, the entire office holding their breath, as though everyone is waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under them, for this to be revealed as some sick joke.

And then, it erupts.

“5 million!” Shane yells above the noise, pulling Ryan in for a hug. He feels that familiar pricking behind his eyes, the forming of tears that he definitely doesn’t want to cry in front of their employees, and he pulls Shane closer. 

The slight musk of hours-old cologne lingers on Shane’s sweater, less prominent than it was at the start of the day. 

If he holds on a second too long, Shane says nothing.

“I can’t believe we did it,” Ryan says, hands still on Shane’s arms. His cheeks ache from how much he’s smiling, he must look like a madman but he can’t find it in him to care. Everywhere he looks, he sees smiles that mimic his own. 

“Same here,” Shane says, his voice barely above a whisper but Ryan still hears him. It feels as though time has paused, as though the noise of the office around them has dulled to nothing more than a faraway hum. It’s as though they’re in their own bubble, watching the rest of the world go on around them but separate from it.

There’s something there that Ryan can’t quite name. It’s a mixture of content and  _ something else _ , as they both stand and stare at one another, grinning wide and the achievement still not quite setting in.

“Company drinks and karaoke tonight, usual place!” Steven shouts, once the noise has finally calmed down.

* * *

Turns out, karaoke bars aren’t the most busy of places on a Tuesday night. Who would’ve known? The bartenders almost look surprised to see them.

But the drinks are cheaper and it’s almost like a private company party, so Ryan’s not complaining.

He loses count of the beers somewhere around five. Collar upturned, hair ruffled. The room looks a little slanted, like the axis has tilted and the bar is wobbling.

“Come on, you and me,” Shane says, gesturing between the two of them and looking him dead in the eyes. Something in Ryan’s stomach does a flip, a hundred butterflies that he had locked away tight unleashing and crawling up his diaphragm, the locks loosened by the alcohol.

Warm fingers enclose around his wrist. Tugging, gently, pulling him through the bar.

“Shane!” Ryan calls, a little louder than he meant to as he laughs, not putting up much of a fight. “What are you doing?”

“I put us next on the list,” Shane says over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. Only when they get to the stage does Ryan realise he never asked what song they were singing.

Then, there’s a microphone in his hands and it’s too late to back out now. 

But as soon as he hears the opening guitar riff, he knows.

“Oh my God,” Ryan says, the words slurring into each other and overlapping. He didn’t even know this was on the songlist. “Really, Shane?  _ Cars _ ?”

“ _ Life is a Highway, _ baby!” Shane says. The title screen fades to the opening lyrics, a little dot jumping up and down beside the first line. 

“I can’t believe this,” Ryan says, going for annoyance but failing completely, fondness seeping into his tone. A whoop from the crowd reminds Ryan that there are other people here. 

The verses are incomprehensible, too fast for how drunk they both are but by the time the chorus comes around, they’re belting it out, like they’re on a road trip across the coast in the middle of July, the sun warming the seats and the windows winded all the down.

A random and unwelcome wave of sadness washes over Ryan, how much he would miss this. Dancing around a stage too small for two. Shouting the lyrics at each other and pulling silly faces, an unspoken game and whoever breaks first loses. Laughing at Shane’s dance moves, at how little control he has over his long limbs when alcohol is flowing through his veins. 

“Jesus, how many choruses are there?” Shane says, sounding a little out of breath and not even looking at the lyric screen anymore. Ryan can’t hold in the laugh that bubbles up his throat.

“I don’t know, dude! You’re the  _ Cars  _ expert,” Ryan replies, as another chorus pops up on the screen. “They just keep coming!”

Maybe it’s the alcohol - it’s probably the alcohol - but they barely get the last chorus out through the laughter. 

The song feels like it lasts a year, three choruses too many, but still not long enough.

“Of all the songs,” Ryan chuckles, placing down his microphone and hopping off the edge of the stage. A single thud behind him, footsteps follow. “It couldn’t have been something normal like  _ Sweet Caroline,  _ could it?” 

“When have we ever been  _ normal _ ?” Shane says ‘normal’ like he’s disgusted at the thought. “But hey, the night is young!” He continues and Ryan’s not really following anymore because Shane is so much closer than he was a moment ago.

If he tried, Ryan thinks he could pick out each and every wrinkle on Shane’s face, they’re that close. He breathes in and holds it, starting to count to four but forgetting halfway through.

Shane glances down, gaze so heavy that Ryan can almost feel it weighing on his lips. Only for a moment, so quick that he would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching Shane like his life depended on it, as though there was going to be a quiz later and he wanted to get all the answers right.

It occurs to Ryan, not for the first time, that this is his reason. This is why he never felt at home in New York. Nowadays, his name has become two, like a package deal, Ryan-and-Shane. And he didn’t mind. 

He’d never had something like this before, this understanding. Always on the same wavelength. Always someone there to set up his jokes so he could land the punchline. Always someone there to talk him down in the witching hour, when the creaking of a haunted house is deafening. Always someone there to sing some stupid karaoke song from the  _ Cars _ soundtrack with.

“Guys!” Steven shouts, coming up behind him and placing his hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “You killed it!” And just like that, he’s pulled out of it, train of thought derailed and too drunk to even notice.

Warm cheeks, Ryan looks away and tries to play it off, like he wasn’t just staring at his best friend, expression open and unguarded. He tries not to think about the feelings bubbling beneath the surface, at the very bottom of his stomach and crawling up behind his ribcage. 

He tries not to think about what this means.

“Shots, anyone?” Someone yells.

Ryan takes a shot.

_ I'm staying at my parents' house _

_ And the road not taken looks real good now _

_ And it always leads to you and my hometown _

The night passes by in a blur of cheesy pop songs and too many drinks. Ryan’s skin buzzes, vibrations through his veins, his brain heavy from too much thought. 

A booth, once crowded with too many people squeezed in, now empty. Ryan sits with his elbows resting on the table - bad habit, his mother would be furious - and brings a bottle to his lips, a sliver of liquid left swirling around the bottom.

“Everything okay over here?” Shane asks, sliding into the booth beside him, drink in his hand as he bumps Ryan’s knee with his own.

“Great,” Ryan says and finds that he means it, a smile forcing its way onto his lips without him even realising it. “It’s been,” He pauses, looking for the right words but they don’t come, slightly out of reach. “A day. I can’t believe we did it, Shane.”

“What? Sang  _ Cars? _ I knew you had it in you, Lightning McQueen would be proud,” Shane says in that joking tone that Ryan’s become accustomed to.

“Oh yeah, five million is small fry next to karaoke,” Ryan shoots back and Shane barks out a laugh. There’s a beat and Ryan can almost feel the moment the mood changes and shifts.

“I always knew we’d do it,” Shane smiles, as he looks across at Ryan. 

“Liar,” Ryan teases, remembering the time just before the launch that they sat on the kitchen floor, talking through all the possible outcomes. He remembers the coolness of the kitchen cabinets against his back, the freezing tiles underneath him, Shane looking at him as they talked through the possibility of having to go back to Buzzfeed, begging for their jobs back. “Not what you said in the kitchen.”

“Meh,” Shane shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “That was just preparing for the worst. I always knew we’d be fine, how could we not be? As soon as you were on board, I knew we were gonna be okay. Right from the first meeting.” Shane says, casually like he didn’t just say one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to Ryan. 

“What?” Ryan says, immediately struck by how dumb a response it is but unable to voice anything else.

“You know what I mean,” Shane says but he doesn’t sound exasperated, more like he’s stating a fact. Confusion laces Ryan’s features. “Okay. Steven, he’s great, he’s a whizz at the finances and business meetings and managing a company. Me, I’m pretty good at editing and keeping the mood up; I can make a mean puppet. But you? You’re the glue that holds this altogether.” 

He smiles, looks down at his lap, serious for a moment and all too embarrassed about it. 

“Even if you’re wrong about the ghost thing.”

Ryan lets out a breath, stunned into silence as his brain stutters, trying to get with the programme.

“ _ You’re _ wrong about the ghost thing,” Ryan slurs because apparently, he’s five years old now. Still, Shane laughs. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shane shrugs, shuffling out of the booth the way he came. “The bar’s closing in a few, they’ve been trying to kick us out for an hour. You coming?” He reaches a hand out towards Ryan, palm facing upwards, an invitation.

Ryan takes it.

“Wanna split an Uber?” He says, as Shane pulls him to his feet. It’s the most logical option, they only live a few minutes apart and Uber prices in the middle of LA at this time are the  _ worst _ . 

“Sure,” Shane says, already tapping away on his phone. They’ve barely stepped out of the bar when the confirmation page pops up on his screen. “Eight minutes.”

_ I parked my car _

_ Right between the Methodist and the school that used to be ours _

_ The holidays linger like bad perfume _

_ You can run but only so far _

“You guys sure you’ll be okay?” Katie says, glancing between the pair of them and assessing just how drunk they both are. 

“We’ll be fine, don’t worry, go,” Shane replies, waving away her concerns. She pauses, glances between them again, as though she’s not figured out if they’ll end up home or in a ditch somewhere yet. But the taxi driver is honking his horn and pointing at his meter, so she makes a snap decision.

“Alright, message me when you guys get home,” She says, as she climbs into the crammed taxi. The noise of drunken conversation spills out onto the street, voices overlapping and words barely recognisable.

“Okay, mom,” Ryan jokes, a playful smile on his lips. Katie rolls her eyes and closes the door behind her, muting the noise of voices. Their Uber is the last to arrive and as the taxi edges away, picking up speed down the street, they’re left in comfortable silence.

Ryan bites his tongue, feeling words clawing their way to the surface that he’s still not sure he wants to voice. Something that’s been nagging at him since Shane spoke.

“Do you really think all you do is joke around and make puppets?” Ryan asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, swaying from the alcohol and the wind. 

“I guess, yeah,” Shane says. A huff of laughter escapes his lips, even though nothing’s funny. “Steven’s the brainbox, you’re the film expert and I’m the funny one.” He chuckles again and Ryan has to resist the urge to talk back, to joke around; teasing each other has become second nature by now. But this feels different.

“Shane, no,” Even to his own ears, the disbelief weighs heavy on his words. Before Ryan’s even thought about what he’s going to say, the words are falling out of his mouth. 

He thinks, maybe, they’ve been there for longer than he thought. 

“You are so much more than that, I mean,” Ryan shakes his head, leaning back against the brick wall, the karaoke bar locked and shuttered behind them. “You’re the only one who kept your calm through all this, when something goes wrong, you’re the one who jumps straight into fixing it without freaking out. You’ve talked me off the ledge so many times, I,” A sigh, a pause, a breath. “I don’t know if I would’ve got through all this without you.”

He risks a glance at Shane, scared he’s said too much, scared he’s gone too serious, swimming into uncertain waters without a lifeboat.

And Shane’s staring right back at him, mouth slightly agape, eyes glancing over Ryan’s face. He’s searching for a sign that Ryan’s not being honest, but he doesn’t find any. 

He knows what Ryan looks like when he’s lying - he’s terrible at it. When Ryan lies, he blinks more than usual, noticeably so, and he looks Shane in the eye like it’s a challenge, immediately on the defence.

Ryan smiles at him, a small smile, barely noticeable. And Shane believes him.

Each feature on Ryan’s face warms under the scrutiny, as Shane’s gaze finally stops searching and meets Ryan’s own. 

Normally, Ryan’s great at reading him. He thinks back to visiting Father Thomas, one of their very first shoots, looking across at Shane and immediately knowing he was calling bullshit. He thinks back to Goatman’s bridge, the mischief dancing behind Shane’s eyes.

But, when it matters most, when things get serious, it’s as though Ryan’s reading a book written in a different language.

Not for the first time, Ryan wishes he was telepathic. He wishes he could see exactly what was going on inside Shane’s head, no filters or censors. Maybe that would be a bad idea, maybe he would spend hours pouring over every thought in the far corners of Shane’s brain. But at least then, he would understand.

Only when a car revs beside them does Ryan realise he’s not sure how long they’ve been standing there.

He’s thankful when the Uber pulls up beside them.

Ryan watches Shane look down and clear his throat, kicking imaginary dirt on the pavement beneath them.

_ I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave _

_ But if it's okay with you, it's okay with me _

After a lifetime of living in California and years of getting drunk and relying on taxis to get him home, Ryan’s an expert on Uber drivers. 

He’s met the chauffeurs with candy in their glove box and water bottles in their drink holders. He’s met the chainsmokers, who open their window a sliver and smoke five cigarettes in record time. 

He’s met the talkers, who turn down the radio so they can ask about your day, then tell you about the insane passengers they’ve had. (Ryan’s always careful to be polite to those ones, nodding and humming along to their stories, trying not to be another tale for later on in the day.)

So, he’s grateful when they climb into the back of the car and there’s a DIY partition separating them from the driver, the radio turned up as far as it can go. A faceless driver, silent and minding their own business, happy to fade into the backdrop.

Ryan checks his phone. Closes it. Doesn’t remember the time. Checks again and realises it’s almost sunrise, he hasn’t stayed out this late in a  _ while _ .

“How many people do you think are gonna call in sick tomorrow?” Shane says, his voice barely above a hush, as the driver flicks on the indicator and turns right, pulling onto an empty street.

“Maybe one or two,” Ryan says. “But everyone will be hungover as shit.”

“Even Steven?” Shane replies, gasping in mock horror. Ryan thinks of Steven, perky and polite, smiling ninety percent of the time. After watching him down those shots like he was going for a world record, Ryan can’t picture him turning up tomorrow without shades and two packets of painkillers.

“Even Steven.” Ryan nods. 

Absent-minded conversation stutters to a halt, as the radio plays some John Legend song, easy listening for the insomniacs that turn to the radio at all hours of the night or rather, morning. It’s vaguely familiar. Ryan’s certain he’s heard the melody before but can’t quite recall the lyrics, leaving him humming along quietly to the tune, only slightly off-pitch.

Shane bumps his knee into Ryan’s - probably an accident. He makes no effort to move away - probably not an accident. Amazingly, Ryan only misses a beat or two, distracted by the warmth of Shane’s thigh against his own, flush against one another, knee to hip. 

A thousand nerve endings spark to life, ones that Ryan didn’t even know existed, sending warning signs like electric shocks up his leg.

The driver pulls into Ryan’s street, onto the curb outside his parents’ house. Every room is dim, not a single light lit with the exception of the porch, left aglow for Ryan when he finally gets home.

As soon as the car’s in park, Ryan climbs out.

Pauses. Turns back around.

A shot in the dark.

“You wanna come up?” 

“I,” Shane says, eyes wide. He opens his mouth and closes it again, no words coming out. Ryan can see the gears turning behind his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No worries,” Ryan replies, answering before his brain has time to process the rejection. 

He plasters a smile on, shrugs it off like it’s nothing, and tries not to think about how badly he misread everything. 

“Thanks,” Ryan says, in the general direction of the driver’s window, because his mother raised him to be polite, if nothing else. “See you tomorrow, man.” Ryan says, casual like he hasn’t just put their whole friendship on the line without a second thought.

Shane’s not convinced.

“Ryan,” Shane says and Ryan can already hear the apology in his voice, which is  _ not okay _ . There’s nothing to apologise for.

“Shane, don’t worry about it,” Ryan says, as he rests his fingertips on the car door, half in, half out. “It’s fine, I promise. No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Okay.” Shane says and Ryan can tell he’s still not fully convinced, but at least he’s willing to let Ryan go now.

He shoots Shane one last smile and closes the car door behind him.

It’s almost too easy to walk into his apartment and fall into bed, sleep pulling him under before the realisation threatens to drown him.

_ We could call it even _

_ You could call me "babe" for the weekend _

_ 'Tis the damn season, write this down _

Whoever decided it was a good idea to get  _ that  _ drunk on a weeknight is a terrible person. Ryan’s sure of it, as he wakes to a cocktail of nausea and a throbbing pain between his temples. Sometimes he forgets that he’s not eighteen anymore, that his body takes longer to bounce back now, that he can’t just down four different types of alcohol and not expect them to make a reappearance the next morning.

He wishes it didn’t take a handful of painkillers and his head in the toilet bowl to remind him.

But hey, at least they were smart enough to make it a late start today, pushing back the workday by a few hours to give them recovery time. Still, Ryan would be surprised if everyone showed up on time, or if any of them showed up with anything less than regret and murder in their eyes.

It takes just shy of an hour for Ryan to remember the embarrassment of the night before.

“Fuck,” He mutters, aloud to himself in the quiet of his childhood bedroom. He rubs a hand down his face and sighs, trying not to think about the day that lies ahead. 

Already, Ryan’s dreading the mere possibility of facing Shane. Most of him knows that Shane’s not one for talking about feelings, but there’s a tiny percentage, a little voice in the back of his mind that swears that Shane will want to talk about it. That they won’t be able to sweep this under the rug all that easily. That it’ll be excruciatingly awkward and neither of them will know how to act around one another and they’ll be treading on eggshells and--

_ We’re both adults,  _ Ryan thinks.  _ We can make this not awkward.  _

Even so, it’s almost impossible not to pour over every interaction from last night, but most of them are fuzzy around the edges, blurred like a vignette. 

* * *

The drive to the office is painfully slow. Ryan picks songs that usually fly by, that he usually plays on repeat and runs into the ground, until he can’t stand to hear them anymore. But three minutes feel like three hours today, and the twenty minute drive to the office feels like a lifetime.

He can’t help but bury himself in a thousand thoughts, thinking up every possible scenario and every worst outcome until he’s feeling sick with worry. 

Every traffic light turns red just as he reaches it, forcing him to pull to a stop.

He convinces himself that it’ll go one of two ways, either they’ll be fine and nothing will change, or Shane will never speak to him again. 

Before he can inspect the latter and all the repercussions that would follow, Ryan turns into the office car park and reverses into a space that’s almost too small for his car to fit. He squeezes out of his car, the door only open a smidge, and tries not to hit the car beside him.

Ryan’s not late, which is a surprise - not because he’s usually late (he’s not), but because he had been expecting to be. With his head in the toilet and stomach churning this morning, he wasn’t sure whether he’d make it in at all. 

But it’s almost noon and he’s here, dosed up on painkillers and water bottle in hand.

When he steps into the office, Ryan’s quick to realise he’s not the only one suffering from the effects of the night before. When he walks past Katie’s desk, he sees her computer brightness turned all the way down, as she squints at the screen. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, shooting her a smile, which she quickly returns.

“Hi,” She replies, as she pulls her gaze away from her screen. “How are you so cheery this morning?” Her fingers land on her temples, rubbing small circles as her eyes scrunch shut.

“Aspirin and too much coffee,” He says and then, because he can’t help himself, “Shane here yet?”

“I don’t think so? Haven’t seen him,” Katie says with a shrug. “Steven’s here though, he’s just gone for coffee.” She averts her attention back to the screen, only half-listening to the conversation now, as her hand clicks away on the mouse.

With a nod, Ryan leaves her to it, sitting down in his desk chair a little too harshly, causing it to rock and creak in a way it’s not supposed to. He turns on his computer and acts like his leg isn’t bouncing frantically, like he hasn’t got one eye on the door.

Ten minutes pass and nothing. The only time the door opens is when Steven comes back, trays of coffee in hand and a bright smile on his face. Ryan had forgotten that he was one of those assholes who didn’t get hangovers. 

He places a coffee on Ryan’s desk with a smile, a gift not asked for but greatly appreciated, and Ryan notices that everyone else is here - Shane’s the only one missing. But the office feels so empty, so quiet. It’s weird. 

Ryan distracts himself by looking out of the window at the way the gentle breeze tickles the trees, and tries hard not to think too hard.

Sometime around quarter past twelve, Shane rolls in. He’s wearing one of his hats, the one in the lightest shade of brown and looking like he hasn’t slept. He squints his eyes, only accentuating the dark bags that hang below them.

“Sorry I’m late,” He says to no one in particular, making a beeline for his desk. 

That’s about the time Ryan realises he doesn’t have a plan.

But it’s fine because Shane doesn’t look at him anyway, pulling his headphones on in record time and getting straight to work.

Ryan does the same.

* * *

They don’t really speak for the rest of the day, Ryan knows they have no reason to, not really. There’s no meetings, no pitches, no brainstorming sessions. They all spend the day doing their own tasks and recovering; answering emails, editing videos, scoping locations and plotting out their next shoots.

When it’s the end of the day, Ryan’s almost surprised at how quickly the day passed. He’d been expecting it to drag, but he was tasked with helping to edit an episode of  _ Homemade.  _ He’s always enjoyed editing, feeling real satisfaction when hours of footage are condensed into a half-hour video.

Just as he’s leaving, Shane catches Ryan by the door.

“Ryan,” Shane says, ushering Ryan to the side of the hall, out of the doorway. “We’re good, right?”

Ryan almost laughs. But he doesn’t.

“Course we’re good, man,” Ryan smiles, as he pulls the strap of his bag over his shoulder, stopping it from slipping down his arm. Shane takes a second to look at Ryan, just to check.

Then, he nods, smiles. Ryan wasn’t lying.

“I’ll text you,” Shane shouts over his shoulder, as he walks down the hallway, any effects of a hangover now worn off.

_ I'm staying at my parents' house _

_ And the road not taken looks real good now _

There’s something about sleeping in his childhood bedroom that makes Ryan nostalgic. 

Wood planks creak beneath him, only meant to hold the weight of a child, every tiny movement amplified in the silence of the late night hours. Ryan takes a glance at the clock. It’s already past two. Scratch that, early morning hours.

His parents were glad to have him back, even if it was only for the time being before he could find a new apartment - turns out, paying rent in LA and New York at the same time is  _ impossible. _

New York. God, he still hadn’t faced it, head on. Every time the thought pops up, Ryan squashes it back down, hiding it in the back of his thoughts in a box labeled ‘ _ later _ ’. But the silence sends his mind reeling. 

If he doesn’t go, what does that mean? Is he being selfish, putting his own feelings ahead of the wellbeing of the company? Does that make him a bad co-owner? He knows the sacrifices Steven and Shane have made for Watcher, wonders if they would go if they had the choice. 

And Shane. 

Years back, sometime around the third season of Unsolved, Ryan had started picking up on little things. He memorised Shane’s coffee order down to a tee without ever making an effort to do so. He knew what Shane looked like when he was lying, when he was nervous, the way his eyebrows would pull together and he’d purse his lips.

Back then, he’d chalked it down to spending too much time together, convincing himself that he was just being a ‘good friend’. And that was fine. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Until he caught himself watching Shane’s lips as they pulled upwards into an all too familiar smile. Until Ryan had to make an active effort to  _ not  _ stare at Shane, to not be so painfully obvious and failing anyways. Until Ryan realised that whenever he makes a joke, he glances at Shane to see if he found it funny. 

Until he realised that making Shane laugh was his favourite thing.

There wasn’t an exact date or an exact moment. It was rather an accumulation of lots of little moments, like snippets of evidence, piling on top of one another to form a case that even he would be able to solve. 

It was gradual, almost unnoticeable. 

Until it wasn’t. 

And Ryan had been certain it had gone away. He’d pushed it down, boxed it away and crossed his fingers, hoping he’d forget about it. It had been  _ years  _ since he last paid it any mind. 

But now, it was rearing its head again, planting itself at the forefront of all Ryan’s thoughts and refusing to move. 

Fuck. 

He’s so goddamn angry. Not at Shane, of  _ course _ not. Shane’s done nothing wrong, all he’s done is exist. It’s Ryan who can’t keep a lid on these feelings, almost like he can’t keep the bottle he stores them in from spilling over and ruining everything.

There’s something about sleeping in his childhood bed that makes Ryan nostalgic. 

He should’ve booked an Airbnb.

Not for the first time that night, Ryan wills sleep to take him and to do so quickly, before he does something stupid like pick up his phone.

_ I won't ask you to wait _

_ If you don't ask me to stay _

_ So I'll go back to LA _

_ And the so-called friends who'll write books about me if I ever make it _

_ And wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm faking _

_ And the heart I know I'm breaking is my own _

_ To leave the warmest bed I've ever known _

  
  


Neither of them talk about it. 

It’s the next day and Ryan thinks that if he doesn’t bring it up, it’ll be like it never happened. It’s not like anything  _ did  _ happen, Ryan knows that, but he’s still worried that maybe his feelings got exposed. That Shane knows. That that was him just letting Ryan down gently.

Embarrassment eats at him and the rejection stings. He obsesses over every feeling, picking apart every thought until he’s tired of hearing himself think. In a normal situation, Ryan’s quick to bounce back but this is different. This feels like a deeper cut. Every time he looks at Shane, his chest aches a little. But he’ll be fine.

They haven’t spoken all day and it was radio silence the night before, Ryan’s phone never lighting up with a text from Shane and stubbornness setting in, as Ryan refused to be the first one to text. 

He knows Shane’s probably just trying to give him space. Ryan thinks that’s maybe for the better, that he can sort through and push down these feelings again until they go away, hopefully for good this time. That’s too hard when they’re together all the time.

So, things are fine.

Until the afternoon. That’s when they start fighting. Bickering. Over stupid, little things, like the colour correction on an episode of Weird, Wonderful and which thumbnail is best for one of the Watcher Weeklys, it’s so unimportant Ryan can’t even remember which episode it is.

“What’s going on with you guys? You  _ never  _ fight,” Steven says, pulling Ryan aside one day after a particularly rough meeting. It seems like they’re never on the same page anymore, like they’re always on opposing teams.

“I don’t know,” Ryan says and finds that he means it. He thought things were going to be okay, that they were over the worst of it. But he spoke too soon, it’s only been a few hours and already, it’s like they can’t work together. 

Ryan can almost feel it going sour, the seams tearing, like the foundations are falling apart, the duct tape placed on the cracks peeling away.

“I’m going back to New York,” He decides, words flying out before he’s even really thought it through. Steven’s eyes go wide but he doesn’t quite put two and two together, or if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“You’re, you’re sure?” Steven says. But he’s made his mind up. 

It’s the right decision. Watcher works better without him here, at least right now. He’s letting his feelings get in the way of the work, like the walls separating his personal life and work life are giving way, a tsunami seeping into the crevices between each brick and threatening to send the whole thing tumbling to the ground.

“I’m sure.” Ryan says and there’s a finality to his tone that’s surprising, even to his own ears. 

* * *

It’s the same routine the next day, just an earlier start. Ryan sits at his desk, typing away on his computer and crafting an email to a possible location for  _ Tourist Trapped _ . 

Shane barely looks at him when he comes in. He plants himself in the seat beside Ryan without a word. 

A wave of nerves hit Ryan out of nowhere, hyper aware that things are different, as though he’s in a scene and the camera’s rolling but he was never handed a script. He doesn’t even know where to start.

His brain quiets, when Shane places a cup of coffee in front of him.

An olive branch, a peace offering.

And he remembers that it’s just Shane. There’s nothing to be nervous about, no reason for the awkwardness - this is his best friend.

“Thanks,” Ryan says, breaking the silence. There’s a pause, only for a split second, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of silence. And then, they’re both speaking at the same time, stumbling over each other’s sentences, off their rhythm.

“I’m sorry about--”

“Look, I’m--”

“You go first,” Ryan says.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I was being a dick. We’re supposed to be a team and I was being stupid. So, I’m sorry.” Shane says. Even as they were arguing, Ryan knew they were just fighting for the sake of fighting. 

“I’m sorry, too.” Ryan replies and that’s that. He takes a sip of his coffee, the paper cup almost too hot in his hands. “Whatcha working on?” He asks, leaning over a little, as Shane clicks away on his computer.

“Lyrics for  _ Puppet History, _ ” Shane says, as he glances at Ryan out of the corner of his eye.

“Who’s singing this time? The knife in Julius Caesar’s back?” Ryan teases.

“You really think the Professor could swing that? That knife has been booked for  _ centuries _ , heard she’s a real diva about it, too.” Shane shoots back and Ryan chuckles, warmth blooming in his chest, returning and filling the gaps left behind by them not talking. It’s safe to say he’s glad they’re on even footing again. Select, delete, an entire line vanishes. “And I’m not telling you who, it’s a surprise!” 

“Sure, bud,” Ryan says. Pats Shane on the back once, before diverting his attention back to his own screen. And under his breath, he mutters, “This is Hot Daga 2.0.”

* * *

It’s Friday night and Ryan’s sitting alone in his parents’ house, scrolling through his laptop. It takes about an hour and a half for him to find an Airbnb that he likes. There’s always something wrong, they’re either too far away from the city, too expensive or too cramped. But finally, he settles on an apartment only a few streets away from where he last stayed. 

It’s only an hour’s commute into the centre, big enough that he can walk between the bed and the wall, that the bathroom and the bedroom are separate rooms. It’s also, somehow, in budget.

As the mouse hovers over the “reserve” button, Ryan thinks, for the first time since he decided, about what he’s about to do. 

_ This is what’s best for the company _ , he thinks, repeating it like a mantra and hoping it’ll be enough of a reason to get him through the next few months. 

_ This is what’s best for me,  _ he thinks. Even though he and Shane are on good terms right now, there’s still those stubborn feelings, unmoving and unwilling to go away. That familiar skip of his heartbeat, the familiar swelling in his chest, buzzing off the high of a successful bit, of managing to make Shane laugh.

He can feel his grip on this slipping, as it tumbles out of control. He needs to fix it and fast.

He hits “reserve”.

As he’s entering the company’s card information, his phone pings with a text, the first from Shane since they’ve been back on good terms.

_ You’re going back to NY? _

He’d been hoping to tell Shane himself, hoping that he wouldn’t hear through whispers at the office, but he’d left it too long.

_ Yeah, told Steven yesterday _

_ What? I thought you hated it there _

Ryan sighs. It’s second nature to repeat the same explanation he’s been telling himself continuously and for a moment, he almost believes it. He thinks, if his phone was listening to him, the autocorrect would fill out the rest of the sentence for him.

_ It's what's best for Watcher. Can u imagine if we got a 2nd office up and running there?! _

_ When? _

Shane ignores the question completely and Ryan can’t help but wonder if he sees right through him, whether he knows that’s not the reason Ryan’s going. Even if he’s not willing to admit that to himself, not yet.

_ Monday morning _

_ How long _

_ 6 months? Indefinitely? I dont know man _

_ Jesus, Ryan _

Ryan’s not sure how to reply to that, if it even warrants a response. So he locks his phone and throws it to the other side of the sofa.

_ We could call it even _

_ Even though I'm leaving _

_ And I'll be yours for the weekend _

_ 'Tis the damn season _

It’s 3am when there’s a knock on Ryan’s door, three familiar raps of the knuckles, even though he’s not expecting anyone. 

He’s got the house to himself, his parents away on vacation for the weekend and he’s long since gone to bed, all the lights in the house turned off. Except the one in the hallway, which flickers every now and then as though the bulb is going to go out.

Ryan peeks through the peephole to see who’s there, fully convinced that he’s about to get murdered, robbed or both. Reading too many true crime cases, and unsolved ones at that, is definitely not good for the psyche. 

Especially not when you’re already nervous about that kind of thing, like Ryan was.

But when he peeks through, he sees Shane, bouncing on his feet nervously. Ryan’s stomach drops, has something happened? The only times he’s seen Shane this nervous were when they first handed in their resignations to leave Buzzfeed and when the Watcher channel trailer first went live.

He unlocks the door.

“Shane?” 

“Can I come in?” Shane asks, words coming out a little faster than normal. 

“Sure, I,” Ryan stutters, feeling a lot like he’s one step behind and scrambling to catch up. For the first time since he got here, Ryan looks at Shane.  _ Really  _ looks at him. 

He isn’t comforted by what he sees. Shane’s hair is a mess, either from sleep or hours of pulling his fingers through it, and the bags around his eyes suggest it’s the latter. 

“You okay?” Ryan asks but Shane just walks through his living room, ignoring the question.

“The other night,” Shane says, coming to a stop and turning to face Ryan. 

_ Oh,  _ Ryan thinks,  _ So we’re doing this now.  _

He’d been expecting it to happen sooner or later. But he expected it to be whilst they’re drunk and laughing about it, about how  _ insane  _ of a proposition it was, about how  _ crazy  _ Ryan was that night. 

But Shane’s not looking at him like he’s crazy. He’s not laughing.

“Yeah,” Ryan exhales, more to fill the air than anything else. He doesn’t know what to say, what he’s  _ supposed  _ to say, if anything at all.

There’s a pause, stretching silence in the dead of the early morning hours, where everyone else is fast asleep. Shane opens his mouth, once, twice, but no words come out. He sighs.

And takes a step towards Ryan.

“Stop me if I’m wrong about this,” Shane whispers, eyes flickering across Ryan’s face, searching. And it feels like Ryan’s finally caught up, like he finally understands what’s going on, but he’s still baffled. All the puzzle pieces are laid out in front of him but he can’t quite put them together. 

“I don’t understand, I thought you didn’t want,” Ryan pauses, gesturing between the pair of them. He searches for better phrasing, better words, but falls short. “This. Me.”

“Ryan,” Shane says. He goes to take another step towards Ryan but thinks better of it, staying where he is. The distance between them feels so small now, begging Ryan to cross it. “You were drunk.”

“So were you,” Ryan says, sounding like a child arguing about who started the fight. 

“I know what I was thinking,” Shane explains, not elaborating at all, already out on a limb and unwilling to risk more. “But I didn’t know if you would wake up and regret it. I didn’t know if it was  _ because _ you were drunk.” 

There’s a moment’s pause, the words sinking in as Ryan realises that it wasn’t a rejection after all, that maybe, Shane wants this too. Even if it’s just a hookup, Ryan’s surprised to find he doesn’t mind. He’ll take what he can get, whatever Shane’s willing to give him.

But then, he remembers New York. He remembers that, come Monday morning, he’ll be on a plane to the other side of the country and won’t be back for  _ months,  _ at least. Neither of them know how this will affect their relationship, whether their friendship will be broken beyond repair. 

All Ryan can think about is the possibility of losing Shane, the one person who really knows him. He remembers the constant texting, the Facetimes, anything just to stay updated on the other’s life and stay in touch.

Ryan can almost picture it. One missed call turning into ten. Taking an hour to answer messages turning into days. Gradually losing contact, like a fire burning out until it’s nothing but embers. Until one day, Ryan comes back and is met with someone he doesn’t know, someone he barely recognises. 

Until there are a thousand little details about Shane’s life that he no longer knows, until they go from best friends to business partners, to acquaintances. 

Because yeah, it’d be painful if he walked out right now, got on a plane and acted like this never happened. But the alternative? That’d be worse. That’d be unbearable.

“What the hell are we doing?” Ryan says, sounding somewhere between laughter and panic, but not really looking for an answer. He thinks of that night, climbing out of the Uber, an invisible scoreboard in his brain, the ball in Shane’s court, his move to play.

“We could call it even,” Shane says, all calm waters to Ryan’s stormy seas, hands held up in surrender and Ryan almost laughs in his face. It’s not that easy, it’s never been that easy. “Just tonight, the weekend, I don’t care. Then, just draw a line under it and move on.”

“Even though I’m leaving?” Ryan says and lets out a breath, somewhere between a chuckle and an exhale, but there’s no humour in it, only sadness as the noise echoes off the walls. 

There are too many strings attached and Ryan’s terrified they’ll all tangle together, until all that’s left behind is an overcomplicated mess they’ll never be able to sort through.

“I’ll be yours for the weekend.” Shane offers, like it’s the most casual thing, like it doesn’t risk pulling their entire friendship apart. Ryan ignores the way his heart tugs at the thought of Shane being his, even for just a moment.

“You’re,”  _ Ridiculous? Dangerous? Insane?  _ He thinks. Ryan shakes his head as he looks down, a faint laugh catching on his breath and shaking on its way out. He takes a half-step closer, only half-aware he’s doing so, and looks Shane dead in the eyes. Takes one last look at the cards in his hands, puts them all on table and folds. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane lets out a chuckle but doesn’t look away. 

He doesn’t stutter, hiding his surprise at Ryan’s answer well and if it was anyone else, they wouldn’t know. But Ryan doesn’t miss the way his eyebrows raise just a fraction, an involuntary action. 

“Not gonna try and woo me? Not gonna wine and dine me?” Shane teases, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips and mischievous lilt to his voice.

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan says but the words hold no heat, as he pulls Shane towards him, his hand at the nape of Shane’s neck. It’s a gentle tug, Shane already meeting him halfway. He feels Shane’s smile on his lips.

It’s tentative, at first. Soft and short kisses planted on lips, testing the waters. Shaking hands at the nape of Ryan’s neck, pulling him closer, as though no distance will ever be close enough. 

But then, Ryan tilts his head slightly and the angle changes. And like a switch flipping, all nervousness seems to dissipate, as Ryan’s fingers twist around the collar of Shane’s t-shirt, pressing their bodies flush against one another. He can feel Shane’s eyebrows furrowing against his forehead, bittersweet and full of want, fingers twisting through Ryan’s hair.

Too many clothes. Shane’s wearing too many clothes, Ryan decides. He slips his fingers under Shane’s coat, resting on his shoulders and nudging the coat off. It falls to the floor with a dull thud, but neither of them pay it any mind.

Shane steps closer, causing Ryan to back up as Shane’s lips travel downwards, planting kisses down his neck. He doesn’t question where Shane’s leading them. At this point, he’s barely even thinking, his brain silent - what a rare occasion.

“ _ Shane _ ,” He breathes, placing a hand on Shane’s cheek and guiding his lips back to his own, once again, wanting, needing to be closer. Shane wraps one arm around Ryan’s waist, turning them slightly and it’s then that Ryan realises they’ve  _ somehow  _ made it to Ryan’s bedroom.

Ryan pulls back for a second, breaking the kiss, more to get his breath back than anything else, his chest burning and heart pounding. When he looks at Shane, he sees the other man in a similar state, lips lightly bruised and hair even more of a mess than it was before. Ryan’s hand trails, resting over Shane’s collarbone.

“You’re sure?” Ryan asks because he  _ knows  _ that he’s sure, but he has to check if Shane is. Wordlessly, Shane places one hand over Ryan’s, shifting it until it lays over his heart. Ryan feels the thrumming against his palm, quick and heavy, mirroring his own.

“Positive,” Shane says, voice rougher than usual. When Ryan goes to lean back in, Shane stops him, one hand on his chest. “You?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan says and leans in again but his lips wander, kissing a line along Shane’s jaw. He hears a thump and a creak, Shane kicking the door shut behind them. Shane’s hands trail further until they reach the hem of Ryan’s shirt, fingertips dancing across Ryan’s back. 

The door barely has time to shut, before Ryan presses Shane up against it.

_ Now I'm missing your smile, hear me out _

_ We could just ride around _

_ And the road not taken looks real good now _

_ And it always leads to you and my hometown _

Ryan wakes the next morning and half-expects Shane to be gone, for the other side of the bed to be cold and long-empty. But when he reaches over, he’s met with warmth, a chest rising and falling as he breathes. There’s a weight on his face, a feeling that he’s being watched.

“Are you watching me sleep, Madej?” Ryan says, as he opens his eyes and yawns. He glances across at Shane, counts his breaths and tries to commit the image to memory. Was this really a good idea? It’s Saturday, they only have two days together and that’s if Shane still wants…  _ this.  _ Whatever this is.

“Oh, are we on a last name basis now?” Shane jokes but Ryan doesn’t reply, just scooches closer and Shane takes the hint. He loops an arm around Ryan, until his head is resting on Shane’s chest. There’s comfort in hearing Shane’s heart beating, steady underneath him. 

Ryan glances up to see Shane already looking at him like this is the last time he’ll ever get to look at him. Without a word, Shane leans down and presses one kiss to Ryan’s lips, chaste and gentle. It’s too tender, too intimate, it hurts but Ryan kisses back anyway.

“I can hear you spiralling, your thoughts are too loud.” Ryan says, barely above a whisper. 

“For your information, I don’t  _ spiral _ .” Shane says, back to the calm demeanour that Ryan’s come to know, all easy-breezy and carefree. 

“Sure, big guy. Wanna order breakfast?” Ryan suggests, reaching behind him to grab his phone. With Shane’s arm around him, there’s a nagging thought that reappears, that this is all temporary, that this will be gone before he can truly appreciate it.

He pushes it down and ignores it, scrolling through the menu.

* * *

“There is  _ no  _ way  _ Winnie the Pooh _ is better than  _ Paddington _ , are you kidding me right now?” Ryan scoffs, incredulous. 

“All I’m saying is the _Paddington_ film might be better but Pooh is more loveable!” Shane chuckles, hands raised, as though he didn’t start all of this.

“I can’t believe we’ve been friends this long and you’re only telling me this  _ now, _ ” Ryan teases, shaking his head as he folds the cardboard pizza box until it’s flat. 

They’ve been here most of the day, the duvet all wrinkled and scrunched, bed unmade. Through the window behind his bed, Ryan can see the sun beginning to set, golden hour coming to an end but still casting rays of light along his hands.

“Honey or marmalade, Ryan?  _ Paddington  _ is a knock-off!” 

“No way, that’s like saying Groot is cuter than Baby Yoda, just because he came first!”

“Well, you got me there.” Shane lets out a laugh and it all goes quiet. Ryan thinks, if asked, he’d be able to pinpoint the exact moment the atmosphere shifted. “Your turn to pick.” Shane says, handing Ryan the remote without looking away.

Ryan takes the bait, takes the challenge, the unspoken staring contest. Without looking, he presses play on the next film along, not really caring what it is.

Shane blinks first.

“Aha!” Ryan says, because apparently that’s a word in his vocabulary. And they’re in fits of giggles, over something ridiculous and stupid and not even really that funny. The whole thing’s childish but by now, Ryan’s come to expect nothing less from them. 

When the laughter quiets, Shane’s still looking at him, a softness to his gaze that Ryan’s never noticed before. Ryan can’t help but lean across and press their lips together. What’s meant to be a gentle kiss escalates, deepens.

“This is such a bad idea,” Ryan says but the way he’s climbing across the distance and into Shane’s lap suggests differently.

“But the good kind?” Shane asks and Ryan can feel Shane’s breath fanning out against his own lips, his mouth moving against Ryan’s as he speaks. Ryan places a hand against Shane’s chest and presses gently, pushing Shane backwards and following until he’s over him, elbows framing either side of his face.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, looking down with a small smile. “The good kind.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t question the swelling in his chest as Shane pulls him down, lips meeting in the middle.

* * *

Ryan wakes in the middle of the night, unsure whether it’s still Saturday or crossed over into Sunday. He’s almost scared to check his phone but when he does, it reads 4:32. Less than eight hours until he’s on that plane and this weekend is nothing more than a distant memory.

He glances across at Shane, he’s still not used to looking across and seeing him there. It’d be so much easier to just get up and leave right now, to grab his bags and head for the airport without another word. (He’s always been terrible at goodbyes, anyway).

He reminds himself it’s not a goodbye, it’s a see you later. But the  _ indefinitely  _ hangs heavy, the realisation that when he goes to New York, he might move there, it might be permanent.

Ryan runs a hand through his hair, knotted and unruly. Thinks of the last two days, of undoing buttons and names whispered into the quiet, of Shane’s lips against his neck as he pushes Ryan into the sheets, of laughing after Shane bumped his head against the headboard, of everything he’s not allowed himself to think about. 

He hates that he can’t shut off his feelings, these feelings that have been nothing more than a burden since the start. That he can’t just see this as a hookup, that he can’t detach the strings.

It’s messy and complicated in ways that Ryan isn’t, not usually. 

He debates it, getting up and going. But one look at Shane and he decides against it. They’ve been friends for years, he owes him more than that.

He rolls over towards Shane until they’re touching. Shane reaches an arm across him and holds him closer, somewhere between asleep and not. And Ryan tries hard not to think about the aching in his chest.

* * *

Things go smoothly or rather, as smoothly as they could’ve. Ryan wakes to the sound of his alarm blaring and rolls out of bed, without hesitation, trying hard not to dwell. He has some cereal, brushes his teeth, double checks his tickets, goes through the motions.

And it’s all going so well. Or was.

“Don’t go.” Shane says, as Ryan’s halfway out the door, lugging his suitcase behind him, one foot over the border. 

“What?” Ryan laughs, thinking Shane’s just joking around, until he turns around and sees a straight face. Ryan’s heart plummets, faster than a broken elevator in his worst and weirdest nightmares. 

“Don’t go to New York.” Shane says. It’s almost unnerving; Ryan’s not used to Shane taking anything seriously, always there to follow up every statement with a punchline. But there’s no trace of a joke in his voice. 

“Shane, if this is a bit, it isn’t funny. I’ve gotta go, I’m gonna miss my flight.” Ryan picks up his suitcase, lifting it over the step at the front door. 

“Don’t get on it,” Shane whispers, his voice just above a hush, just loud enough for Ryan to hear. There’s something in his tone that Ryan can’t quite name, a cocktail of concern and something else, that makes him turn back around. “Please, Ryan.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Ryan asks, grip loosening on his suitcase as his fingers rest on top of the handle. He’s being obtuse, he knows he is, but not deliberately. 

“There’s  _ something  _ here, right? I’m not being completely insane?” Shane asks and Ryan’s not sure if he’s looking for an answer. He’s scared to give him one. “I,” 

Silence hangs heavy as Shane cuts himself off, runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, frustration tugging on his features. He’s never been the emotional type, it’s not in his nature to lay it all on the line for the sake of his  _ feelings.  _

He’s always blamed it on his Midwestern upbringing, the way everyone in his hometown used to brush off any emotion, repress it and stay tight-lipped. The idea that you’re not supposed to burden other people with your emotions and your feelings, that you go through whatever you’re going through alone and put on a brave face.

But now that he’s older, Shane’s beginning to realise that his family were never like that, that they were close and there for one another. He’s beginning to realise how unhealthy that way of life is, how many years of emotional muffling, stitched carefully into his formative years, that he’s going to have to unpick.

He’s beginning to think that maybe it’s just him.

“I love you. Have for a while, I think. No, I know I have, for a few years now.” As soon as he starts to speak, the words come spilling out, after being armed and ready on the back of his tongue for too many months. 

Ryan says nothing, his mouth falling open without him even realising. It feels like the breath has been punched out of him, his insides hollow and brain scattered.

“So, you can’t go.” Shane grimaces, scrunching his eyes shut, unhappy with the wording. “You  _ can  _ go, of course you can, it’s your life, I’ll support you whatever you do. But I couldn’t let you go without, you know, giving you all the information.”

“Shane, I can't stay,” The words stutter out, as though he’s never spoken before, as though his lips don’t know how to form the words.  “I’ve got no apartment and I’ve booked flights and an Airbnb and there’s a million business meetings and--”

“That doesn’t matter, we can rearrange them, cancel them, go back another time, send someone else across,”

“Shane,” Ryan sighs, glancing over his shoulder into the street that he grew up in. One foot in, one foot out.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shane says. There’s a pause and Ryan catches the flicker of uncertainty as it crosses Shane’s features. “Unless, I’m reading this completely wrong? I know I’m making a lot of assumptions here and this wasn’t part of the deal but I love you, Ryan. I had to tell you.”

“You,” Ryan says and it’s like the words finally sink in, like this is the first time he’s actually hearing them. “You love me?”

Shane nods.

“It’s totally fine, you know, if you don’t feel the same or you don’t--” 

“No, Shane,” Ryan cuts him off and Shane stops speaking abruptly, the words falling short. 

“No?” Shane says, immediately concerned he’s overstepped and misread everything. And suddenly, Shane’s stepping back, slipping just out of Ryan’s space, so Ryan reaches out and grabs Shane’s hand. It’s enough to stop Shane in his tracks, pausing mid-step.

“No,  _ no,  _ I mean, you’re wrong. I do,” Ryan says, stumbling over his words. He’s always pictured this moment but never, not for one second, thought it could actually happen. “I’ve loved you for years, I just thought it was something I was in alone.”

Ryan’s surprised when Shane looks just as shocked as Ryan felt a few moments ago, even in the wake of his own confession. As though Shane had expected to tell Ryan how he felt, had planned on it, but hadn’t thought about the aftermath. He hadn’t given much thought to how Ryan would react, he never let himself get that far.

“I love you, too. If that’s good with you.” Ryan whispers, more confident now, as he steps closer to Shane. He hears the suitcase thud behind him, as it falls to the ground, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

He’s going to miss his flight but even so, he’s in no rush. Ryan wonders whether he was always going to stay, whether he had any intention of getting on that plane in the first place.

“That’s more than good with me.” Shane smiles and the familiarity of the expression in the face of such an unfamiliar situation causes him to smile back. It takes everything in him to hold back for a moment, to print the smile on Shane’s face to memory.

But then, Shane glances down at his lips and Ryan’s lost.

He leans up and presses his lips against Shane’s. It’s more tender than before, less urgent now that there’s no expiry date. It’s a kiss that drags its feet to the finish line, a kiss that blends into another and another.

“Do you think Steven will be mad?” Ryan asks, grimacing at the thought of having to tell him that his two business partners are together and are willing to put the whole business in jeopardy. 

“Nah,” Shane says, laidback as ever. 

“Wait,” Ryan says, reading between the lines. It dawns on him just why Shane’s so calm about it, why he’s not worried at all that Steven is going to react badly. “Steven  _ knew? _ ”

“Ry, we’re around him 24/7 and not subtle. At all. Of course he knew.” Shane laughs, as his thumb rubs circles on the back of Ryan’s hand, reminding Ryan that he’s still holding it. “Can’t say the same for Katie though.”

“Oh, Katie definitely knew,” Ryan says, shaking his head as a light chuckle escapes his lips. He thinks back to asking her where Shane was, how she was apprehensive to leave the two of them alone after karaoke, how she watched Ryan with a concerned look. “Again, not subtle.”

“Well, they don’t call us the subtle boys!” Shane says, joking lilt back to his voice.

“Yeah, because that’s a  _ terrible  _ name,” Ryan says, a smile on his lips as he pulls the suitcase back over the border.

“Not as bad as Beef Man,” Shane teases, closing the door behind Ryan. Ryan checks his watch, his parents will be back in a few hours. He feels like a teenager, giddy in the midst of his first love and counting down the minutes until his parents said they'd be home. “You wanna come back to mine?”

Ryan doesn’t unpack the suitcase.

_ It always leads to you and my hometown _


End file.
